Sorry it took me so long to update. I turned 21 last week and spent Thursday-Saturday nights getting rather plastered, so I do hope you forgive me. The next chapter I post (probably also tonight to make up for the lack of posts the last few days) is going to be the epilogue. As much as I hate to say it, the story has run its course and it's almost over. I also wanted to note that I made a change to the opening paragraph of the first chapter to fit where things have gone. This is still a work in progress, even once it says it's complete, because I am my own beta. Makes things a bit rough to catch them the first time through. Hope you forgive me for that too. Well, without further ado, read!
The sight of blood blooming across the front of my shirt probably should have been worrisome. Instead, it seemed like a mild inconvenience. There was pain, sure, somewhere in the vicinity of my chest, but it was disconnected. I couldn't quite remember what had caused it. We had been on a case, something about a drug ring that was getting increasingly more violent. I remembered the chase, frantically searching for Sherlock because he had, once again, run off on his own. I remembered pushing the door open to the building, the sound of shouting, screaming, something hard and unforgiving tearing through my back. A bullet, of course.
But it didn't seem to matter all that much.
Well, that was, until Sherlock brought his hand down across my face.
"John. John, listen to me. You need to stay with me. You can't do this. You can't die on me. I just got you back, don't do this. Don't do this to me. I need you. Damn it!"
Everything faded to black, then swam back into focus. There was lots of shouting, but it all sounded like I was hearing it from underwater.
"John," my name sounded hollow, coming from above me. I realized someone was holding me and looked up. "John."
I had never heard Sherlock's voice sound like this- desperate, sad, I didn't know he could feel sadness.
"The ambulance is just around the corner, John. You need to keep awake. Do this for me, John, please. Please, just keep your eyes on me."
The last time he said those words to me, I watched him fall from the rooftop of St. Bart's. The pain of the memory shot through me just as my shoulder rebelled against the torn muscle again. I must have made a sound because Sherlock was now shouting at someone- Lestrade or Mycroft, perhaps- to get the medic. Seeing him coming apart made me start to panic, then I realized what I was really seeing.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me."
That's what he said that day, and then he fell.
"Please, keep your eyes on me."
That's what he said as he held me and my blood soaked into his skin and stained his hands just as his did to the pavement outside of Bart's, and I realized I was witnessing a very different type of fall.
Sherlock Holmes had gone and fallen in love with me. If I died before I got to tell him that I felt the same, I'd be so pissed off.
So of course, the world chose that moment to go all topsy-turvy.
'Please, God,' I prayed, just before everything faded back to black, 'please, let me live. For him."
When I woke again, it was in a darkened room. The only light was from the hallway just beyond the mostly closed door to my room. The smell of antiseptics and chemicals and blood filled my nose and I realized it must have been a hospital. Unless it was some sort of cruel joke, I had managed to stay alive.
I turned my head to the right to take in the rest of my room (small, private, clean, nice, probably Mycroft's influence), and found the lovely addition of one Sherlock Holmes slumped over in his chair, his arms folded under his head, resting on my bed just by my hip. His curls were a disaster, no doubt from running his hands through them in that exasperated way that he always does when he's stressed out. I couldn't resist running my fingers through them, careful of the IV that was stuck in the back of my hand.
He stirred slowly then came awake all at once, much as he had that morning after the first night we had slept next to each other. I couldn't resist smiling at the memory. He took my hand in his.
"Oh thank goodness, John. You're awake. I thought- we didn't know- we almost lost you- I didn't know what I would have done if I'd lost you."
I tried to speak, and it took me a few tries. He was still rambling on about medical procedures, how I had only been unconscious for 24 hours, Mycroft's response to the situation. Finally, when I had my voice, I squeezed his hand and he stopped talking to look at me.
"What's wrong? Are you in any pain? Should I get someone-?"
"Would you shut up?" I croaked. "I'm trying to tell you something important here."
His mouth closed with an audible snap and he nodded for me to continue. If I knew him at all (which I was proud to say that I did), I would say that he raised his shields, bracing for impact.
"I love you."
That made his mouth fall back open. I had the pleasure of watching the shields not only drop, but the sight of multiple emotions flitting across his face while his mouth moved but no sound came out.
"John," he said finally, pulling the neutral mask back over his face. "You were shot because of me. You almost died because of me. If I hadn't been so stupid, if I had just killed Moran, or not gone out by myself, or just never came back-."
"Idiot," I said, cutting him off.
"Well, that's what I was trying to get at, yes."
I chuckled and it hurt so badly, I decided I was never going to do that again.
"Not what I meant. I've loved you since you told me it could be dangerous. It is dangerous, and it's fucking fantastic too. So, unless the feeling isn't mutual, I don't want to hear another reason why I shouldn't love you come out of your mouth, 'k?"
He brought a hand up to cup my face- his cool fingers providing a nice respite from the feverish feeling I had- and I saw him searching my eyes for any clues as to my intentions. I laid myself bare under the scrutiny, and whatever he did or didn't find there had one of his secret smiles pulling at his features, softening his eyes, dropping his masks.
"Oh, John, what on earth am I going to do with you?"
"Love me? Kiss me? Both?"
He laughed and pressed his soft lips to my chapped ones, and when he pulled away, it was only enough so he could meet my eyes again.
"I didn't think it was possible, you know."
"Hm?"
"To love. I didn't think I could. I was told so often that I didn't have a heart that I believed people. It was easier not to care. It was easier to shut off those emotions, to pretend I didn't care, but then you came along. When I was off hunting Moriarty's men down, I spent the first few weeks telling myself not to think about you. If I thought about you, I would get distracted from the task at hand and I would fail and then I would never see you again. It was easier to wait.
"But there was a night, somewhere just outside of Lyons, when we were tucked into tents against the cold, sleeping for the first time in weeks, that I stepped out for a cigarette and looked up at the stars and I remembered the look on your face when I told you that I didn't understand the solar system. I carried that thought with me the next day as we made the raid. No matter how hard I tried to push it out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried to fight the sentiment, I couldn't get the sound of your voice and the wonder it held out of my mind. I fought harder that day than I had the entire time I had been gone. It was then that I realized they weren't hindrances, these thoughts of you, they were motivation.
"The first time I was back in London, about a year after I had left, I broke into the flat and stole your dog tags and wore them every single day after that. It was a constant reminder, more so than the thoughts, more tangible, of what I was fighting for. I didn't care if you took me back. I didn't care if you never wanted to see me around. I only wanted you to be safe. I needed you to be safe. It took me until the day I came back to the flat for good, saw you there, saw how much of a wreck you were, that I realized the reason I had fought so hard for you was because everyone had been right. I never had a heart, not until you came along, and the thought of you breaking was more pain than I could handle."
I wiped a tear from his face that he hadn't realized had fallen and wondered just how I had gotten so lucky.
There was a knock on the door, snapping us out of the moment. It was a doctor, trailed closely behind by Mycroft.
"Ah, Doctor Watson, good to see you awake," the doctor said and turned the light on. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired, stiff, sore. And thirsty. Am I allowed some water?"
"I'll go get you some," Sherlock said and was out the door before the doctor could even answer.
"Well, that settles that," she said and shook her head. "Yes, you're allowed to drink. You should be able to eat too if you want to give it a shot."
My stomach rumbled in response. I hadn't even realized I was hungry until she said something. "Yeah, that would be good. Thanks."
"Your speech is good. The anesthesia has been worn off for a long time, and we're giving you an alternative to morphine. It seems to be keeping the pain at bay without muddling you up too much. All good news."
"Sherlock tried to explain to me what the procedure was when I came to, but I was a bit too happy to be alive and all to listen to him..."
"Not to worry. The bullet entered from the posterior side, through the scapula. It was a clean wound as far as they go, about 4 cm to the left of where your file and the scar from your time in Afghanistan say you were hit. It exited through the front, nicking Mr. Holmes' upper arm on the way out, but not causing any real damage there. It doesn't look like there's going to be any permanent damage. You'll have to go through the same sort of physical therapy that you did after Afghanistan."
"Thank you," I said.
"Is there anything else? I would like to have a word with him before my brother comes back."
"I'll be back in 5 minutes to do some tests now that you're up, but you can chat before then. I'll try to keep your brother at bay for a minute."
Mycroft nodded in thanks and shut the door behind her when she left.
"I wanted to thank you, personally, for what you did for my family yesterday. I know that I seem rather cold to you, and I know that you think I don't care about Sherlock, but I do, very much so. I told you the very first time that I met him that I worry about him constantly. I was telling the truth. More than that, I love him dearly. You saved his life, and I'm realizing that it may be in more ways than just the obvious. I thought for a very long time that my brother was going to slip back into his old habits. I thought that I was going to finally get the call that he had overdosed and was lying dead in a morgue and that I had to come identify the body. Something changed in him that night that you shot the cabbie for him. I think he realized that there was someone out there who would honestly kill for him, that someone could care enough, and it's my fault it took him so long to see that he was worth all that and more. Love is a chemical defect, John, but I think you've proved that it isn't always found just on the losing side of things. I wanted to thank you for that, as well."
The door opened before I got to say anything, and Sherlock brought a pitcher of water and a glass to the table next to my bed.
"Here. I tried to get bottled since I know you prefer it, but this is all they had." He poured a glass, put a straw in it, and held it for me. I went to take it from him, but he slapped my hand away and held it in place while I drank from it. It was heaven, and I had to remember to pace myself before I finished the whole thing. "Mycroft, if you're done now, you can leave."
"I just wanted to fill the Doctor in on the details of what happened."
"Oh, don't worry about that," I said. "It's obvious."
Both men turned and looked at me with raised eyebrows.
I sighed. "By the time I reached the top floor, your men were already coming in behind me. They swept the lower floors, taking care of any of Moran's men that I had missed. I'm guessing that I didn't quite manage to hit Christopher with a kill shot. When he saw what I did to Moran, he must have been extremely angry and used his last moments to try and kill me."
"Very good, John."
I found myself blushing stupidly at Sherlock's compliment, "Thanks."
"Well, that's all then. I'll be in touch, John." He set his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Try to get some proper sleep tonight, brother?"
"Is that... sentiment?"
"Never, disgusting thing, that," Mycroft responded and, unless they were very good drugs the doctor was giving me, I swear he winked at me before turning on his heel and leaving.
Once the doctor had come back and ran her tests, I was informed that I would have to spend the night again but that I would be able to head home the following day. I missed 221B more than I thought I could, so I was very happy to hear the news.
"Are you spending the night here again?" I asked Sherlock when the doctor had left.
"Yes. Do you mind?"
"Not at all. Come up here though."
"We both won't fit, John."
"Would you just get up here?"
I scooted over as much as I could. The IV had been taken out of my arm in favor of oral pain medication, so without that in the way, I was able to wrap my arm around his shoulders. He tucked himself under the blanket, rested his head on my good shoulder, and put one of his legs over mine to keep himself on the bed.
"I love you," he whispered, and my heart tightened up.
"I love you too, Sherlock."
I kissed the top of his head and drifted off to sleep.